The Birthday List 2008

I don't really need to post this, but seeing how slyly letting my main gift buyers know what I want for my birthday is a big part of my original intent for WENDs, I really should. This is really just a formality, and if you really have an itch and want to get me something (and can't think of anything), contact my mom and she will assign you an item to get me. Really. But feel free to just send me a card with $5 in it. I love $5. Without further ado, we're off.


Ahem, me-me-me-me-me-me-me-meeeee!


OH, whoa is me. SIGH. My laptop is getting old. SIGH. I've lived for two years on an 80 GB hard drive. It sure would be nice to have a bigger hard drive. It's totally an ATA and I need at least 250 GB because I have grown to detest spacial limitations. And I totally know that spacial doesn't mean that kind of space. Totally.

Oh, and the battery is so worn down and old, I am lucky if I get 15 minutes from a full charge. WHOA IS ME. I MEAN WOE. I sure do wish I had a new battery, I'm about to run amuck, but it would only be a 10-15 minute amucking, because I don't have much battery life.

Completely unrelated, but did you know that it's been two years since I got that fabulous knife sharpener? Totally. And the stones are starting to wear down. It's so sad trying to sharpen knives with flat stones that it makes my ears spin. And that's weird.

You know how much I love books? No? Oh, I guess I don't really love books. But I don't dislike 'em, especially ones on murder. I mean brainwashing. I mean I better stop digging the hole deeper.

Oh, darn, another pen just died or had died or something SIGH. How I wish I had a pen which could last forever unto eternity. Like that one pen I used to have.


I think that's about it. And you all know how much I love knicks and knacks, too. But that's beside the point. I have to go!

The Darkest Hour of Temptation Comes Before the Dawn

It began when I awoke. My first thoughts stirred and danced and forlicked (kind of like frolicking, but higher jumping), but out of nowhere hope and hopelessness collided and engaged; this hateful match was very disturbing to my half-asleep brain. Normally hope and hopelessness don't go at it, but they were really, really, foully angered at each other today.

The Kev Conscious didn't seem to care and let it go on for quite a while. This is typical if, say, secure and anxious are going at it, but not when hope and hopelessness are fighting. Because if hopelessness wins- and I mean really wins- ...game over. So it's a little important that they not play war with each other.

I'm happy to report that The Kev Conscious quenched the brawl. I don't think that hope was exactly on the losing end, yet it's nice that The Kev Conscious wasn't defective. But then the fruit of hope and hopelessness's raging began to manifest.


You know that the Dawn is near. September 23rd...that is when I can begin my Metroid Prime 2: Echoes birthday run. It's been two long years...unbelievable. All I can say is that I'm either wrong about that, or I have some astounding patience. Regardless, it is now that I begin purification.


I must abstain from gaming for personal entertainment from now until I begin Metroid Prime 2: Echoes. I must cleanse myself of that which may detract, and I must extirpate my fears. It's so far gotten off to a bad start, what with hope and hopelessness clashing this morning...

I find myself restless. Restlessness is the fruit of a clash of those Titans of Kev's Mind. And restlessness is not a good thing to have when you're abstaining from gaming. It leads to temptation. But I'll be OK. I'll soldier on. I'll be strong. I'll stop being dramatic.

And I'll celebrate on that bright shore.

My Heart Just Melted

Uog.


Ever see something that you didn't necessarily mean to see, and when you saw it, it bowled you over and your heart melted into liquid and poured out of your mouth because you weren't expecting it? Like this:

John 19:34 KJV But one of the soldiers with a spear pierced his side, and forthwith came there out blood and water.

Let's "personalize" that:

But Kev was looking through his blog, and saw this post, and he fell over, and his heart melted and poured out through his clenched teeth at the sight of that stunningly wondrous visage.


Oooooooog. "A heart melted still beats."

Guitaring Pains: I think I'm trying to tell me Something

My fingers hurt. My hands hurt. My throat is probably bleeding. Echo is really, really ticked off. And Echo usually does the ticking.


In case you can't tell, I've been hymning something fierce. I dis...ouch. Sorry, hand cramp. Finger cramp, actually. Hold on.


Hush little babies stop hurting so, it'll be OK in a day yes oh, stop your fretting no pun intended yo, it'll be OK in a day or so...



Sorry about that. I had to sing my fingers a type of nursery rhymeluby/lullarhyme. They love that kind of stuff. They move and sway and curl and ...retract... And stuff. Irregardless, I think I'm trying to tell myself something. I think what I'm telling myself is that I'm not playing hard enough, and I'm not singing loud enough. That has to be it!

Mr. dataDyne says that pain is weakness leaving the body...I'm sure it's the way that most things that he says actually, somehow, through some witch-like force of spoken spell, come true, but I think I've learned that when he says something, I should expect within a few days or weeks for the order of reality to be rearranged according to his mandate. Or maybe he just knows when the rearrangement of reality is going to occur, and it just seems like he does it.


Irregardless, if pain is weakness leaving the body, then I must have some weakness in my hymning character, because I am aching. One of my grandest, greatest, most splendid dreams is for some special people (but they have to be special and under special circumstances!) to lovingly create for me a nametag that says something about my guitaring on it. Like, "Hymn Guitar," or "Saint Guitar," or "Guitarzan," or something (and I want the necklace part of it to be expensively durable!). And a matching steel plate that can go inside Echo but with his name on it. We'll be matchies!

Why did I say that. I would guess I had a point. I forget it. Irregardless...forgot what I was going to say. I keep forgetting the points I'm going to make. Uhh, hold on.


\


Right. So, my point is, whilst I may be in pain, the greater problem is that I think Echo is not doing good. Hard strumming makes him sound...off. And I may need to strum hard if I'm making a Pentecostal musical point. The only remedy I know for this is...you guessed it...thicker strings. I make it sound more dramatic than it is, sure, but it'll be tons harder to do barre chords. Yeah, so there.

Uhh...and I may need to have the action lowered. But lower action = more fret buzz, and if thicker strings = less fret buzz, then unaltered action + thicker strings = very little fret buzz but hard to play.

We'll see how this pans out.


And no one get any ideas about making me a name plate necklace. If I want you to make it for me, I'll very well tell you to. You have to be a special person/people under special circumstances. So if you want to make me a name plate necklace, try to get yourself into a special, circumstantial position, OK? OK. Fair warning, it won't be easy for you. I will give you nothing but hell for your efforts. Like a baby that you are trying to feed ground peas to.

As I Have Judged, I Hold the Cast of Death

The other day, my mom was out of town on business, and me and my dad had to milk. My mom is very gentle ('crazy old goat lady' gentle) with the goats, but me and my dad...well, we're not quite as old-lady.

When my dad decided that Lightning, the Black Goat that Recently Gave Birth (link to my mom's blog), didn't want to be milked and decided not to milk her, it fell to me as the ruthless, cruel, and evil one, to milk her, and to thereafter put lots of commas in this sentence. After she kicked the bucket twice (soaking me in milk), I decided that she did not deserve to have her small, [word removed] baby anymore. In fact, I won't even use that word, lest I bring shame to Samus Aran. I'd never want to go and do a thing like that. It'd also make an attempt at shaming Jesus, and well, I wouldn't want to do a thing like that, either.


This was the baby I recorded being born...here it is:


...and am currently not editing the footage of for Mrs. dataDyne and Mick Key and well, a lot of people who want to see it. I can't seem to find the inspiration- and now I think I've found it, but shame, there's no time to start right now. Anyway, guess what happened today? Something very sad.

I was washing dishes, as I often do. Then I discovered it...somewhere near the bottom of the water.

The beloved Harvest Plate. The plate that bore several Thanksgiving feasts, and found itself at church supplying food more than once. Brother-in-arms to the elder Holiday Plate.

Dead. I am sorry, Holiday Plate.


See that? Somehow it got chipped in a jarring way. What nonsensical, pointless brutality. This plate died long before its time should have come. And speaking of death...


There's Lightning's little baby. Well, OK, click here to see it. Warning: It's 'graphic'. It's a baby goat swollen up in a dumpster laying next to a lamp. Its dead eyes do not even show. It's not that bad, sheesh. Anyways. I suppose, now, that I hold the keys of death, or at least the ability to cast it in some fashion. His life is extinguished, and the message spans the entirety of the goat hoard. Rumors abound that I poisoned him in his sleep.

Still...what a fate not to be shared, to be dumped uselessly into a dumpster. A fate I will not allow to be shared.

Thus, I begin.

First, find your area.
Then mark the area, like below. (Squint, if you have to. Or be smart and open the picture to see it bigger.) I used a fair, fierce shovel, if weak of neck. But still not lacking in courage, and one of the sharpest we have.

Now, it in this lackluster, brutal beginning of Summer that I begin my toiling.


What a cunning foe I face...the sun...

Now start digging. I remember what short bit of life it lived as I dug, burrowing deeper and deeper, as what could have possibly been tears, but were almost assuredly sweat, dripped from my face.

Nine minutes later, with the hole sufficiently dug...


I begin the solemn progression. A fate not to be shared...the words rang in my head, as bitterly and resolutely as first my mind whispered them to me. No time for lamenting, no time for speeches...dinner had to be made. Unceremoniously, but still as ceremoniously as I could, I placed the young, dead one into the hole, then covered it with shielding to keep out prying, evil eyes. And shovels.

Now the time comes to cover it. Again, I cry bitter tears that are most likely just sweat. They sting my eyes.

This is the saddest leg of our journey...the last sighting...the sorrowful parting.

Five minutes later, it is complete. Now to stomp all about to make it harder for the dogs to get to it. And now to get back inside, for, since the Foe has seen me, it has doubled its efforts to wipe me from the face of the planet.

But Harvest Plate is in its final rest. The waves of death radiating from the sky have not succeeded...this time.

And thus I have stopped the dumpster-fate from touching my dear Harvest Plate. May its soon replacement not be a sk8rgirl or a person who says "dude" and "whoa" every other sentence.


Note: I now hear that the dummy goat (as is his name) will be buried tomorrow morning. As is our manner, I shall dig the hole today, and he shall bury the goat tomorrow. I dig holes good.


This is out next to Hannah, our psychotic border collie whose montage I have yet to make.

R from the A: I Have No DVD Drive, Part V

I have no idea why I forgot to make the fourth post IV instead of IIII. I actually like how IIII looks, but come on. I think I was caught up in the pure victory of remembering that that was the fourth post. Usual header blathering here.



Actually, I do, and I really, really like it.

But there's a problem.



You know that, since I accidentally destroyed everything on my computer, it has been one wacky, crazed, failed attempt and useless effort after another. It's as if the whole world is conspiring against my laptop. I never knew such myriad complications could arise from merely initiating a system recovery.


I discover today that, after running the pitiful Windows/or HP update a few days ago, I now have no DVD drive. Thus, I can't use DVDs or CDs for any purpose, and can't even see the drive in My Computer. And the HP Update client is on the fritz so I can't try to re-download the update.


And I'm on a schedule. I owe a recordering to David dataDyne and his family, and I owe a recording to Doug Carrot Top and his wife and their dogs, and I owe Lisa dataDyne TWO emails, and there's lots of good news, humble fool, but I can't discuss any of it right now. This is the place, but the time, oh, it's just not the time.


Normally, if I were not in this zany twilight zone of a beat-on-Kev's-laptop fest, this would be simple. I would edit the WMA for dataDyne in Serif MoviePlus5, then shred the WMA away from the WMV for the Carrot's in MoviePlus5, and then I'd send the WMA's to them and I'd get nice emails back saying "Wow, that was quick" and "Nice work, Kev!" and I'd STILL have time to send Mrs. dataDyne the two emails I owe her and on top of that I'd have time to make a "Happy Birthday Mom" post but no, no, no, my DVD drive is malfunctioning, and thus I can't reinstall MoviePlus5, and the general consensus is that directly after running Microsoft or HP's update, the DVD drive fails.

But through it all, I must remember that anger is not the solution. The solution? That's the solution. So I need to find that and use it, not just vaguely assume that anger will solve any of my problems. Women could learn a lesson from me on this, I think.




Depressingly, I enter into the sickly, malnourished dread-world of PC Tech Help. I could call either of my so-called-friend techies, but both of them are acting out Hebrews 10:25 as we speak. Or, I know the one is, but I don't know about the other. The other is a shady, deathly ghast of pythonic proportions. That and I haven't talked to him for a while.

This barren wasteland. "When are you getting up tomorrow? Depression is waiting as soon as you wake up!" my mom reminds me happily, as my brother coughs and chokes and spits in his room. The clocks tick too loudly. My dad's TV in the other room drones on and on.


I try uninstalling and reinstalling. Updating driver- no updates. Rolling back driver- driver never rolled forward. I just burned a CD the other day. It should be working, I think to myself.

I try deleting LowerFilter and UpperFilter, as prescribed for this problem. I tried using TweakUI (download.com), which lets you change the letters associated with drives...but it only recognized two drives, the two partitions of my hard drive, C and D. Darn it.

Now it seems I only have one hope: apparently, my HP Update got damaged. Thus it is my theory- every theory I have had has been wrong, so bear with me- that while in the middle of updating it was destroyed. Thus it did not reinstall my DVD drive. Oh, I need to hear Mr. Grinch. YouTube has its purposes. Stink! Stank! Stunk.


OK, I'm going to try a "Guided Help." If this doesn't work...I just may start thrashing.


Right. This (scroll down) guided help- which basically does some things- actually deleted both th LowerFilter and UpperFilter. Previously, I could only find the LowerFilter. But after a restart, my drive is still nowhere to be seen. After almost five hours of this, I turn in for the night, seething with rage.


The next morning, I awaken to the sound of "HEY KEV, IT'S TIME TO DO HOOF TRIMS, GET UP RIGHT NOW, AND BY THE WAY, YOUR DVD DRIVE IS BROKEN REMEMBER!?" Thus, everything about that morning that was bad was brought to my attention before I even opened my eyes. I was about as angry as a horned toad in December.

Then, it turns out we aren't even doing the hoof trims because, yeah, she lost the cutters.

After another 1.5-2 hours- during which I seek more solutions and physically remove the drive and put it back in in futility- my mom finally began to help. Randomly, she found a place which said to right click My Computer- then click Manage, and Disk Management. Alternatively, you could go Control Panel>Administrative Tools>Computer Management>Disk Management.

Then I simply right-clicked on the drive- which was recognized but unassigned letter-wise- and selected Change Drive Letter and Paths. Then I set it to E, and I'll later set it to X because I like E free for my external drive.


That's just fabulous. And I mean that in an entirely sarcastic and non-sarcastic way. Emergency averted. I then packed my bags to go work with Pa for the day. There were reptiles a-plenty. I'll post about that soon. I got some awesome pictures from M.L. I'll tell you who M.L. is. But now the search cloud; I'm not greedy for hits, I'm greedy for helping others and hoping they'd help me.



DVD drive not working
DVD drive not recognized
DVD drive not operating
Windows XP
Windows XP Media Center Edition
DVD drive not operational
DVD drive broken
DVD drive LowerFilter UpperFilter LowerFilter

Part II --- How I Somehow Deleted Everything on my Laptop (and then found it again)

Continued from Part I.


So I did the recovery. It took around an hour to complete...then after an ABSOLUTELY MIND-BENDINGLY LONG startup and setup process, I...found no files on my computer.

Nothing.


Just squeaky-clean desktop with factory icons on it. During this time, me and my mom sang some hymns to help us cope. She was dealing with her own problems, including but not limited to RSS or XML. I do believe I intoxicated myself; turns out, I'm really, really bad at making ginger ale, but I'm REALLY, REALLY good at making ginger ale. I mixed this supposed intoxication with some Rescue Remedy. The resulting Drugged Kev was both laid back, hilariously hopeless, ineptly deceptive, and very suicidal.


But by now, you don't want to hear about my suicidal rants, you're waiting for the deus ex machina. Hopefully, the hilarious deus ex machina. You want everything to be OK for ol' Kev. The tech guy calls ("By teh wai dud, I discovaried a tim machiney n we r ging bak 2 passt 2 sav ur filez!") or, an astronaut tells me I just need to hit Alt+F8, whatever that does.

Sometimes I don't get out of pickles I've pickled myself into. It's a sad fact of life. System scans revealed nothing beyond factory-installed .jpg's and videos. However, all of my installed programs were there- but none of their saved files or user information. It turns out, it did the opposite- saved all installed programs, deleted all pictures. All two years worth of pictures.



Well, seemingly, at least. My hard drive still had 57 GB of junk on it, with the same 3 GB free, but the files were nowhere to be found. I checked hidden and system files, etc. etc. Nothing.

I entered the C partition (the one that had the 57 GB on it), and there were no huge amounts of data anywhere to be found in that "folder." Only at most 5 GB. On the outside it said 57 GB taken up...but on the inside, I could find nothing. Except for one small ray of hope...the User Accounts folder contained all the accounts from my pre-Crisis and post-Crisis laptop. My old account would say "Folder Empty," but it would then say that "access was denied."

I held onto that slim ray of hope. It got me through a tough hour. I told Mr. dataDyne yesterday that I spent an hour crying under the table (it may or may not have happened! For once, that's a good thing!), and asked him if it was more manly to admit that or not, and he said that if I'd already done it, it would be more manly to admit it. So, I tell you now, I cried like a little girl, or so I think I did. Do babies cry in the womb? I'll have to ask when the asking is good, probably when the next godfather-able baby comes along.


Then, I found this page from Microsoft...um, I can't find it. I DID find this from Microsoft, which freaked me out. It says that files kept on the desktop will not be saved in the recovery...oh God, I keep ALL my important text documents on my desktop! And most of my pictures! And most of my recorderings, and most of my extremely huge downloads!

Thus, I go through the whole process once more before discovering that, in fact, my desktop was saved. God knows how. Maybe PC recovery thought that my desktop was My Documents it was so cluttered. I would have lost nearly everything. Thanks a lot, you jerk, you made me go through it all over again. And now, HEY, I happened to find it.

What is the title of this mysterious, life-saving source of information?

HP and Compaq Desktop PCs - Unable to Access Data from User Accounts after a System Recovery in Windows XP

I think I went bonkers when I first saw it. Here is the description:

ISSUE:

When a user creates multiple accounts and saves information onto each account, the information is stored under that account name. If a non-destructive system recovery is then run on the system, the customer cannot access the necessary files of the account, although the files are stored in each account.

SOLUTION:

In order to resolve this issue we need to change the security privileges of the folder to enable access to each of the folders. Follow these steps to gain access to the folders:

Can you believe it? Basically, when I did the PC recovery, my old accounts were saved- and under each account, the files for that account. But they no longer existed as logins in my post-Crisis laptop. So the files were still there, but the account that could access them did not exist. Get it? This may help also (link to Microsoft).


Basically, I changed the ownership from my old Kev account to my new Kev account, thus allowing my new Kev account to log in. Problem, solution. I wondrously watched as the file's ownership was transfered.



In ending, disaster avoided! And here's a cloud of search terms, maybe somebody when looking for help in this matter will see this (when I add my blog to Google, that is):

PC Recovery HP Laptop Desktop,
Non-destructive PC recovery system recovery
Unable to access data in user accounts after PC recovery
PC Recovery data missing folders missing files missing PC recovery files deleted
System Recovery data missing folders missing files missing system recovery files deleted
Cannot access account user account access denied
Files missing after PC recovery system recovery
Data missing after PC recovery system recovery
Folders missing after PC recovery system recovery


Whew, that was a mouthful.

Part I --- How I Somehow Deleted Everything on my Laptop (and then found it again)

Today I decided I would scan my computer with AVG, do a complete clone backup to my My Book 500 GB external hard drive (because I didn't bother to backup my laptop), and then utterly commit a fresh reinstall of Windows. I need some way to get another year out of my laptop without having to expand my hard drive. (If anyone has a laptop hard drive that's 100+ GB and at least 5400 RPM, and you have no use for it but to give it to me for free, please do that now. My HD is 80 GB, and another 20 GB would be great.)

Anyways, the problem really occurred when, well, let's just say I skipped to step three, that is, the "commit a fresh reinstall of Windows" step. The problem is, in this context of skipping the first two steps, it now read as "Reformat Hard Drive and reinstall Windows (to make matters worse, you forgot to backup, fool). Resistance is futile. We are the Borg."


A bit more detailedly, I examined my PC recovery software. I have a 13 GB recovery partition on my hard drive. It does stuff (and takes up space), so I decided to see precisely what it did, to assess my abilities in terms of backup and formatting. My experimenting with it caused a process to begin. "Quit or begin?" it said. I figured I'd see what it does. I've followed this pattern for my entire life and it's never once went wrong...except with women. Works fine with men.

"You look very haggard today." "Yes, I do look haggard, I did not shave. I am a man." You walk up to a woman and tell her she looks very haggard- and that she forgot to shave- and that she's a man- well, she'll say "Yes, I look very haggard," but she'll spell it "halberd." It never works with women, especially at medieval weaponry displays in museums. My question is this: just what do they expect to happen? Stabbing somebody with a weapon will get you in big trouble, it's not a great way to vent your offended feelings. Stop this madness before I am eventually killed.


Anyway, the non-interruptible process began, but me being me, I interrupted it, Alt+F4 style (that will close windows, don't do it right now). Turns out, it was 90 seconds into deleting system files. You...need system files. My laptop shut down very naturally...but when I started it back up, it wouldn't continue because of hal.dll which it informed me was missing. I'm sure there were lots of other startup/stability files deleted. Thus I turn to my recovery discs. They're scratched up (how did I let that happen?), but they still work. I did not need them, because the 13 GB recovery partition was still there, but I sure had them. Y'know, had I needed them. Totally.


Sadly, then the confusion set in. Microsoft, on their website, says that System Recovery- the NON-REFORMAT and NON-PARTITIONING, standard version- will not delete files. Problem is, in-between these comforting words are words like "backup before attempting" and "recovery will cause all programs installed to need to be reinstalled but will not delete DATA FILES."

Whatever Data Files are. What does this craziness mean! I guess the moral of this story is, "Backup often to multiple sources."

I woke my mom from a sound nap. "Mom, my computer will not start." "Call Norry, our company's IT guy and bother him on his Saturday." "OK." I got in contact with Norry. He said I could A: go ahead and do the recovery- AS LONG AS IT DOES NOT SAY REFORMAT OR PARTITION- or I could wait until Monday and he could copy my HD contents onto a drive and get it to me and I could go ahead and do a destructive reinstall of Windows.

I decided to try the recovery. After all, it said nowhere that I would lose data (unless I chose "reformat"), and I don't need my computer down for a week where I tediously hand-pick files to reinstall. Not when I have no choice in the matter, at least. If I have a choice? That's fine, I'll take the tedious hand-picking any day. That was a complete and total lie, I apologize.

So I did the recovery. It took around an hour to complete...then after an ABSOLUTELY MIND-BENDINGLY LONG startup and setup process, I...






...oh. It thus ends in a sorrowful cliffhanger. See Part II --- How I Deleted Everything on my Laptop (and then found it again)

Note: Part II was not here on Saturday, I actually had a bit more written but I redid it on Monday and incorporated it into Part II.

Regret upon Regret

Have you ever done something very bad? Perhaps you stabbed someone, or broke a bottle over someone's head, or maybe you threw someone off of a cliff, or perhaps you're a dentist and you forgot to fill someone's cavity after drilling the tooth open, causing them many days of surreal wonder, and causing weeks of waking up in a cold sweat for yourself. "Did I remember to go to the bathroom? Oh man, what if I wet my pillow!" the dentist woes.


Well, I did something very bad today.

It all started when I got up. I had gotten to bed relatively early, so I got up relatively early; funny how that works. It seems like something straight out of Things Don Feldick-Horsegoggles Has Taught Kev, Vol I, part II, The Basics. Thoughts poured into my head as I came to consciousness.

My dad (and brother) decided to stay home from church, and it seemed contagious; many others were seemingly raptured. I counted a few entire missing families, and 3-4 partial families; husbands without wives, grandmothers missing grandchildrens.

It was the Hitman's turn to bring food, and usually the ones bringing the food arrive as a solid unit, a kind of priesthood of food-bearers, efficiently offering goodies and treats and all sorts of things that make you go "Wow, you brought a bunch of garbage." The Hitman's did not fail this holy tradition of everyone in the food-bearing party attending.



Me and my dad have great trouble eating this church holy food. I am unsure what great force prevents us, but under this sinister influence, I almost always forget. The one time I make a great mental note to have some of the food is when Manny Hitman brings it. As you may know, she cooks love, joy, and peace into every bit of food she prepares- and those are three of my favorite things to have cooked into food! No one else offers this kind of deal, and it has resulted in pure brand loyalty.

She brought food about a month ago- a garlic cheese ball of some sort seemed to be the centerpiece- yet I forgot to get any. I regretted that for weeks after I had heard about it. I still regret it. I'm sure many of my recent nightmares have been based upon not sampling that garlic cheese ball. At least the ones that had me waking up in a cold sweat declaring "I'll never forget you, Garlic Cheese Ball!"




Rarely in life are you given a second chance. You have to fight for your second chance. Like Pastor says, you have to "grab them around their neck and twist it until it snaps off and the blood gushes out."

Today, I got my second chance. A bountiful feast was provided; some crazy angel food cake/cream and strawberry yule log (this+ a chocolate yule log = perfect representation of Light and Dark- hello 19th birthday cakes!), handmade chocolates handsomely decorated, and a very much larger-than-life bowl of pineapple, watermelon, and cantaloupe.

And another cheese ball. All prepared painstakingly by the Hitman's. I then did something very bad. Something I will regret for a long time.


I just couldn't control myself...I completely passed over the feast. Not one crumb of the crackers. Not one taste of the manically delicious angel food log. The ride home was a long, numb, surreal voyage of silent, open-mouthed "Why can't we just go back"'s. The unrelenting pangs of regret had already taken their foul grasp on me.



I hereby offer this public apology to the Hitman's, specifically Manny Hitman, as I believe she prepared most of this feast. I'll try to do better in the future, I promise. Please do not take my actions as a gesture of protest or a negative declaration. Don't stop bringing food.

I hope you guys can forgive me.





I hope I can forgive myself.

Beef Bourgignon: Marinade in HOW much wine? For HOW long? Then bake for HOW LONG?!

With my new lease on life, today I decided to make a roast. Not so much that roast is fun to make, but more like "We have no chicken and no pork and we have had steak the last four nights in a row." The other day (probably five days ago), my mom made a roast and was jabbing it with the knife to insert garlic. I would go "OUCH" every time she would jab it. We were laughing by the end.

Speaking of knife...I need to order a new knife sharpening set. My stones will be worn down within four blade maintenances, and I also need a really good, extremely sharp filleting knife. We have 50 chickens to slaughter, and we have 30 more on the way. Sharp knife = good knife. Really sharp knife with really pointy two-edged tip well suited for cutting the oil sac out of a chicken's rear end = really good knife.


Regardless, since we'd had steak for the last four days, and roast for the five days before that (this is what happens when my dad gets sick of chicken), I decided I wanted something a little different. I took the only-been-thawing-for-an-hour roast and began what would have been, if it were recorded, a modest reenactment of the Battle of Gettysburg, if it were carried out with axes and repeated cries of "THOU SWINE, BE SEVERED IN TWOETH!" I carried out the merciless battle with the bravery and purpose of Gandalf when he uttered "You shall not pass!"


The reason for this obviously unnecessary brutal savagery was a cookbook that said "Hey man, make Beef Bourgignon." It did not specifically state to commit what could figuratively be referred to as "pillaging" on the roast, only to cut it into 2" cubes, but winners can't be losers, and I obviously won that duel, as I now observe my hands, ten fingers intact.

Proudly I read the rest of the recipe. "Soak in two cups of wine." My heart dropped, wracked with indecision. If I use the wine, it will be proof to my parents that I am a closet drunk, I worried. Yes, but how can they accuse you of being a closet drunk when you choose to use the wine on a roast, not greedily drink it the moment they step outside? I reasoned. Also, I'm not a closet drunk, I reminded myself.

The final nail in the figurative hot air balloon of my indecision was that I needed to thaw the meat out. If it's soaking in wine, I can put it into hot water, and thus have a conductor for the heat to transfer to the meat.

I also need stock. I need to make stock. On top of that...uhh...it takes three hours to bake. And I have about four hours to do all of this in. So I ...well, I shouldn't be writing this post. I'll go tend to that whole process now, if you'll excuse me. Hopefully I can scrap together at least a few cups of broth.

OK, that didn't take too long. I have the "stock" going (though I found some stock, I'll need some in the future), and I'm pondering if I should make potatoes anna. I think I will. It shoulds i...it sounds interesting. Basically, if I have it right, beef bourgignon is beef with a wine gravy sauce and caramelized boiling onions and mushrooms. Best thing: it allows me to use my dutch oven, which I absolutely adore. And there's nothing wrong with caramelized onions, they are immaculate.

Potatoes Anna is thinly sliced potatoes layered in a pan with thyme and rosemary, weighted down with something, and cooked for about an hour making a sort of cake. That sounds great and easily ruined! I'll make a side of steamed carrots.


And I'll post in the comment field how it turns out. I'll post the recipe next time, but only if it turns out good.

The Turmoil of a Bitter Soul

So, last night, I was driving home. It occurred to me that I wanted to play Turok 2: Seeds of Evil. (See the first, second, third, and fourth level reviews, if you have time to waste.)

I began thinking of the horror.


After a few minutes, I realized I was speaking. I slowly reached down and turned on my voice recorder, hoping I wouldn't notice. Here it is:

...than to die. How is it possible to experience this nightmare again? What a warring aberration would be the renewing of this dread sorrow! This horrific, non-valiant force of dismay! The feared adventure of mourning travail, that is that wretched game; yet there is Adon, shining as a ray of hope. They, the Dinosoid legions, run amok, ruining all they encounter; none can stem this tide of wickedness and destruction; unknown the cause, children are locked in cages, to what end, we may never know. The horror of the Mantid swarms...the war drums of the Purrlin...the matchless iniquity of the River of Souls...the unending fury of that foul destructor, the Primagen...


This is how I talk myself out of stuff.


The lair of those fell beasts, the Blind Ones...the sadness, and the bitter contempt...this is Turok 2. That I would, I do not...the evil that I would not, that I do...for to will is present, but how to accomplish that I will, I find not...for sorrow is swallowed up in defeat, defeat dealing that final blow into the heart of cleanliness, and godliness, contentment...the swarms, the hoarding, yet again a wave of upheaval for the continuously war-torn Lost Land...in need of a savior, a Son of Stone...sadness spreads as a canker...the fear, the mourning, rising like a vengeful serpent, it strikes...locked in a room with no hope...the horror of never knowing when you will meet your end...the fantastic evil of the Flesh Eaters...the Mantids, who would invade ripe worlds, the Earth being chief...what I would not have even then contemplated, the sixth level...the vengeful hordes therein...the mutant, or mutated, army...the horror...no bravery can match. It has been said, that fear, bravery...bravery is the control of fear, not the lack of...that proverb finds trueness in the sixth level, the Primagen's Lightship...for no amount of bravery, be it foolery or true braveness, could extinguish completely the horror...where dismay and doom radiate...horror...the river of souls flows sadly and drearily...bitterly killing all who venture near...for a simple, deathly drink. The zombies...the horror, the dreariness, the gloom, the agony, the gnashing...the trembling fear, the mourning souls of those who are lost...this is Turok 2: Seeds of Evil. And yet, it is within my will to play for once more...the arrow; the Dinosoids...they fight endlessly, grinding on as an awesome siege weapon fiercely ravening. The legions have no will, except that you are destroyed...thus to you to try all you can to persevere...to the end...that all may be light. That once more, for a short season...the end may be denied...if but for a short time. That bat of a creature, sealed in its Lightship...the warping...the endless warping...the sound...the sound that it makes...ringing and rippling endlessly out into existence. The chance of facing unexpectedly the dread flesh eaters that will sorrow you. At the first encounter, they fight with unnatural vehemence, a fearful fervor...the iron maiden of despair that is the Flesh Eater Portals...they are abomination manifest...how they seek and how they desire for all to end, and to end all...mangled, destructive creatures...their evil apparent to all to whom it would appear, and to all who would dare imagine. Meanwhile the Blind Ones drag the oft innocent, who would be safe, from the surface, and feast excitedly. Trapped in a room with no hope, despair...this is Turok 2...and yet this I desire. But then...to deny ungodliness, this I count a much greater gain. For all things are lawful to me...but not all are expedient...therefore, I find not the willingness to persevere within myself; thus I will flee from this wretched suffering, this harbinger of death.


Well, if you managed to make it through that, you'll know more or less how I make my major life decisions. I agonize and travail for a while, then figure it out once I'm done with that. I like to have my pity, and wallow in it, too.

I figure I have 10-12 more hours on Age of Empires: the Age of Kings, 25-40 more hours on The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, and 2-3 more hours on Final Fantasy I & II. So with a minimum of 37 hours left on these games, and a maximum of 55-75 more hours (I might decide to play FF II, which would be around 20 hours, but I have heard it is basically just FF I, though it's not as good), I don't really have time for a game that's just going to make me not pee my pants.

I would mention some of the conversation me, the Hitman, and the Justice had last night, but that's a very sensitive issue. ("There's something special about three guys standing outside of a building after Bible study and chatting about how wives are more-or-less glorified slaves," the tale begins...)

A Very Disturbing Manifestation on my Right Tonsil

Yes, it appears I am mildly sick. Yesterday, I got pwnt by the dust in a house me and my dad were working on. We have to reconstruct the "hardwood" floor. It's more like hardwood-looking particle wood floor. It looks really great, but boy is it easily damaged. "Don't be fooled by cheap imitations, buy Particle Hardwood Flooring. As cheap as carpeting, but nowhere near as durable! It also is susceptible to water logged swelling! Gee, that's... swell!" It's some sort of composite material with fake hardwood finishing. Veneer.

I realized my throat was sore at around 2:30 PM. We were in a low-quality, high priced Glass and Mirror shop; they don't order it, until you pay. Literally; they can't afford to have the glass in stock. The building they are set up in is, apparently, how glass is tempered (they save money doing it themselves). The sun beats down through the 10' x 8' glass entryway, being mercilessly concentrated as by a magnifying glass, baking any "loiterers"- i.e. customers- in destructive waves of demonic heat.
They immediately take advantage of your sudden disorientation- due to the extreme heat and the waiting room full of smoking employees- and hoist the window from your hands to take measurements, not offering pricing or information as to when the window will be ready.

Only after 10 minutes of standing in the warping heat do they offer you a credit card payment device, whose instructions you apathetically and limply follow without concern as to cost. You stumble outside and collapse on the cool, refreshing concrete, the sun meanwhile baking down on you. After regaining consciousness, you examine your receipt; the glass cost at least 3 times as much as it would from a high-quality, medium-priced glass shop, and it won't be ready for a week to 10 days!

Across the street, you blearily spot an advertisement for another glass shop. "Air-conditioned comfort while you order; glass is tempered off site, not in waiting room. Super Special Saver Savings- Save Big on storm windows; pay as little as a third of what you just paid!"


Oh, I hate that glass and mirror shop. If I could, I'd go to the glass shop which tempers their glass off-site next week (to 10 days, UGH) to pick up the glass. But how did I end up talking about the glass shop? Oh, yeah, I really hate that glass shop, that's how.



So I told my pa, I says, "Pa, I probably won't be going tomorrow; if my sore throat clears up, I will be, but otherwise, I won't. I don't want to have to miss church." A mere 7 hours later I woke up, my throat feeling very sore, but not in a swallowing-glass fashion. I can't wait to go to church sick; I can be like, "Oh, dear, I am sick, I wonder what it is." There are many mothers at church, and I'd like to see them get in an argument amongst themselves over which condition I have and the best cure. Argument = guarantees best cure. My pastor will have to deal with my non-sensible wallowing when I call him beforehand asking him if he's sure miracle healings don't occur anymore, however.

I scribbled a note to my dad. I forget what it said. I didn't even have my glasses on. I am not sure if it was words or just scribbling or if it's legible. I was in a stupor. I decided to take some pictures of...my mouth.

One thing I love about my camera is the ability to easily take pictures of my own mouth with it. What I discovered was...very disturbing. See picture, below.

It is required you open the picture in another window, full-sized, for the full effect. That's why they call it full-sized, not bigger-but-not-quite-as-clear-size. You can clearly see- in what I can only assume is a tonsil- the visage of a demon. See picture, below, for ocular clarification!

WORSE, look at the one below! Note that it is NOT PHOTOSHOPPED OR EDITED IN ANY WAY, except cropping the photo! I.e., the picture shown was completely unedited, and the only "editing" was the surrounding portion of the photo removed!


Now, full-size it [link to pre-zoomed pic; look at the pupil!]. CAN YOU SEE THAT? IT'S AN EYE IN ITS EYE SOCKET! OH MY GOSH, WHAT DO I DO! PASTOR, HELP, WHAT DO I DO, THERE'S A DEMON IN MY TONSIL! PASTOR, CAST IT OUT OR SOMETHING, GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT! GO MATTHEW 8:32 ON IT OR, MATTHEW 8:16 OR, FOLLOW MARK 16:17 JUST THIS ONCE, PLEASE!



...HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP! IT'S PROBABLY DOING BAD THINGS...IT COULD BE DOING THE DARK SAMUS ON ME!


AHH! I CAN FEEL THE PHAZON MADNESS COMING ON WDOASPAK_ODO)#RLDCLLLLLlllll


['phaaze' to black]

"I Got You..."

It echoes through my soul...reverberates throughout what is seemingly my entire being...or at least as much of my being as I am aware of...the phrase, "I hurt in places I didn't know I had." ...this reverberates through parts of my being I didn't know I had. Burning.

The pounding feeling. The...jaw setting, scowling... defeated feeling. Dismay... simply, "diarrhea of failure," much like "diarrhea of the mouth." ...then it rings again...like some sort of audible crystal...shining and yet, at the same time, it's so hard to look at...wearying...


I got you...


Yes, wearying is best to describe the feeling...it draws on you, like a Metroid...there is no...defense, but to surrender peaceably...humbly admitting defeat at the hands of a higher being...not a proud humbling, but a...grimaced humbling that comes from...force instead of peace. One which expounds the thought...the meaning...the fact...


I got you...


It is unclear if it's worse that I was got, that I...almost, in a way, did it to myself...or that it now stands back proudly...a type of GG...the losing team, dragging their helms, forming a line to high-five the winning team...who are going for pizza after the game...as the pizza place wonders why in the world they ever sponsored the team...but the PR disaster that would result from withdrawing sponsorship from the Tiny Tims softball team would be...a hit the restaurant may never recover from...offending even one Tiny Tim was enough to cause Scrooge to be haunted by three demonic entities...an entire softball team's worth would be, quite plainly...suicide by demonic means.



I now ponder what course of action the affront requires.
A bitter, scalding defeat...a proud, apathetic enemy...carelessly ending my reign of victory...it will burn within my soul, driving me further to depths of revenge...every step...every move...silent cursings flowing forth from the heart, as desperately wicked as it is...deceiving my mind...causing missteps...faltering...a deluge of delusions and lostness permeating...


Even still...there can be only one outcome...only one solution...one fitting end...as I rise above the tyrants and the kings, above the powers of the simple and confounding the powers of the wise...the powers of the pure and the powers of the untrue...casting aside the crowns of the high and the robes of the foolish...though all would be consumed by me, I will yet not destroy ferociously those who mean me no harm...no...I will then turn my fury on the one who caused it all...consumed by this rage which burns within me...I now set my sights on my enemy...the one who dared to utter...I got you...





[Kev has been getting into Final Fantasy I (GBA) a bit much. He is burning with pure hatred because he was defeated by a powerful boss he shouldn't have tried to fight. His pride is hurt. He has to accept bitter, bitter defeat at the hands of a now-hated enemy. See picture.]


[I just discovered that somebody told my brother that I am annoyed at him because he cooks such slop. I wonder who.]

Camcorder Conundrum: Kev Destroys his Mind

OK, so my parents' wedding was recently. As you may know, my Great Grandmothers' death celebration was also recent, and our Sony (model TRV-138, if memory serves) Hi8 died. It got stepped on then hit with a hammer to unjam it. What?

We had to make due with my digital camera, which pulled through like a champ. Thanks digital camera! You pulled through like a champ! Give yourself a pat on the back. Champ.


As for my parents' wedding, we borrowed my dearest Aunt Desnee's camcorder (thanks!), a Sony DVD model. After recordering the...OK, recordering is not a word, folks. After recording the "behind-the-scenes" stuff, I "disced" the ceremony and the receiving line (where everyone hugged my Mom). (And my Dad). (He was there, too, I think).

Now, since the DVDs can only hold 30 minutes (20 minutes for short play and 60 minutes for long play), I had to record on three DVDs. Yikes. I'm "discovering"...get it, discovering? DVD humor, folks. Laugh, man! "Hah hah" like that! LAUGH!




Here, I'll take occasion to admit that I thought MiniDV was a 3" DVD disc. Here I thought that there were cameras which used full-sized DVDs, and those were the DVD cameras. How on earth, I don't know. I'm not stupid or anything. I think it was the ads with the miniature DVD (MiniDV sounds like a miniature DVD!) and camera inside a womb with the fetus holding the disc. That was definitely it. Or maybe it was a barbie doll holding the disc. I think barbie should have been capitalized. Barbie. Yep. Well, we'll get that in editing. Like men.

Anyways, I'm discovering how difficult it is to edit the DVDs. DVD humor again. You missed it, didn't you?

You'd think it would be easy and streamlined, right? Just rip them to the computer, edit by selecting scenes, then click "burn." Or, even just compile all three discs (as they'd all fit on a single full-sized DVD!). Simple. But no.

It turns out that the DVD cameras record in "DVDese," but most editing software (like the editing software I already have) only knows "MiniDVese." I'm going to have to download a freak Hulk-type software (it's normal EDIT Banner one minute, then RAAAW! PROCESS AND RENDER! Hulk the next) to edit them. But my real problem? Ohh, the length of taping. I tell you what, if they had DVDs which recorded for 60 minutes, I'd be all over a DVD camcorder.

I would play with it and hug it and tell it I like it and put it under my pillow and make it breakfast in bed (with orange juice!!!) then hallow it in the Drawer of Hallowed Things Kev Likes. The hallow from the other hallowed objects rubs off on the non-hallowed object, much like a "little leaven leaveneth the loaf." I have no idea where the hell the hallow came from, but it's been hallowing everything in that hallow drawer for years. I need to start an official list of hallowed games, paddles and memory cards.



...anyway, I figure I have two choices in the camcorder market. But first, the qualifiers: it has to have Sony's Nightshot Plus or equivalent. That's big for me because I want to be able to film things at night. I'd live with it if I weren't already spoiled silly, but the Nightshot contains too much raw awenem. This leaves me with, to my knowledge, only Sony camcorders.


Sony's line features the DCR-DVD108. It is my DVD camera of choice, not to be confused with my general camera of choice, and it has a $350 price tag. After experiencing taping the wedding on three discs when I could have used 1 DV tape, I am apprehensive. I have another wedding to tape shortly- which most likely will be twice as long- and I do not want to fumble around with 2 or 3 DVDs.


As for my MiniDV camera of choice, the Sony DCR-HC38 fits the bill. It has a $300 price tag, and it is...one up from the entry level, and has 40x zoom (the aforementioned DVD camcorder also has 40x zoom). But with the camera shake, 40x zoom would only be useful in very rare instances. You'd have to have a tripod for sure.

My current thoughts are that we should get a MiniDV camcorder. The biggest reason is that they allow for 60 minutes in the higher quality (and you can buy 80 minute tapes), where DVDs only allow 30. That's a sad thing for DVDs. Just the fact that I could have caught EVERYTHING- from behind-the-scenes stuff to ceremony to receiving line- on one MiniDV instead of 3 DVDs makes me sad and angry. It makes me want to, I don't know...fling something at a tree. Maybe I should stop using that banana and coconut hand lotion...and I should avoid bananas.

If I did get a MiniDV camcorder, I think I'd have to buy an external hard drive to edit and backup (though, everything changes when you actually work with the product). Apparently, each little tape is 11 GB. That's bigger than a double-sided DVD! And I really wanted to type "double-sided sticky tape," as...when else do you use the precursor "double-sided?"
I am not much for external, spinning, hard discs. They freak me out. I think...you can transfer straight to DVD...then edit that 2 or 3 GB file. Who knows, like I said, it all changes when you actually work with the thing.


Now that I've decided I want a MiniDV camcorder, I need it by Halloween (filming a non-holiday-related spoof show), as I don't have time to send it back to an online store if it doesn't work...so Walmart is the only brick-and-mortar franchise without the 15% restocking fee. I don't mean to sound greedy, but those restocking fees are of the Devil hisself!

Walmart only sells the DCR-DVD108 and the DCR-HC28. The HC28 is basically the HC38, but it's a step lower with 20x zoom as opposed to 40x zoom. I'll have to make a...gasp...compromise! It's also $50 less, and that's a whole battery or shoulder strap or something, and believe me, the battery they provide is rarely enough...so it isn't too much of a compromise. I'm planning to someday go camping with my Dad in the dark woods. I'll need plenty of camcorder battery life for that, as I'm certain we'll run into stick figures and stuff and a blaring witch and get lost and both die.


Now that I've got that cleared up (I've also heard that the DVD format is going to fold, and MiniDV will outlive it or something?), I STILL have to deal with these accursed, filthy DVDs from the wedding. I'm going to download a Hulk-type video editor, and use the 30-day trial. I...I may end up buying it. No need to refuse trial to me! HAHH HAHAH AH SUCKERS!!!

[NEXT POST]

The Destroyer Rearranges

The Destroyer appears. He moves through the Valley of Useless Crap, unmoved and uncaring, a seemingly barely sentient being, knowing only death and destruction. All tremble at his icy stare. All tremble at the visions of their doom and destruction and past colonies demolished in one fell, malignant swoop.

Junk Villages, great in times past, lay in ruins. Wasted, spent piles of lost hope and depressed, relentless sorrow permeate what little is left of their once formidable domain. Odds and ends find their rest in the horrific silence and despair of death. Yet still the Destroyer has not quenched his thirst for destruction. Pillaging...ever pillaging. Each stride sends fear like a bolt of lightning, drenching the hearts of whatever lies ahead with miserable fear. All wait for their end.


He comes to a stop. He looks slowly side to side. All fall as if dead at his feet. Yet the killing does not commence.


No pillaging. Wrath and destruction on hold. He descends as he rarely appears. A savior. He leads the refugees away from the burning ashes, who, having survived the relentless destruction, passing through the fires of his wrath, have found favor. They fear to follow him, yet find themselves powerless to resist. As they trudge in silence, presences falling at their sides, would-be enemies stopped in their tracks; they march under the protection of the Destroyer.

Could this be the same one who came before, upturning the Soils of Uselessness and stopping the Fountain of Waste?

The same who pillaged the Pile of Crap and the Box of Lousiness? Threw out the whole village of Worthless Nick Nack? Burned to the ground and left none standing of the Cupboard
of Inutility? Dispensed raw hatred upon the ancient Elders, the inhabitants of Drossy Cubbyhole, who watched over the Valley of Useless Crap?

As we are led to our new habitation, when we arrive, it becomes clear that the previous existence is over. Wrath ceases against us, as we oppose the Destroyer no more. Having been removed and displaced, we begin the arduous task of growing our deep roots; yet, this time, we do not grow them for want or need of surviving the fires of wrath. This time we grow them for a new brand, a new breed of non-folly, a new realm of peace and hopeful prosperity previously unknown. We now know the joys of being approved by the Destroyer, of being, instead of under his destruction, under his protection. Having endured his attacks to the end.


None know what the future holds, yet it is less harrowing than ever it has been. We face it with newfound hope.


[I rearranged the house a bit, and this is what happened from the perspective of what I rearranged; I moved a refrigerator, the milking supplies, the table, the garbage can, and the 4' tall speakers, thus adding about 25 square feet of space]

My childhood dies slowly.

So, I have things to do before my birthday. I have to write my speech, which I am going to ...speak, and, also, I have to tell my parents- slowly- and in detail- how to run a birthday operation. My hopes officially landed on the moon yesterday, and, well, they used gorilla glue to secure themselves to the surface. There will be no retrieving them. They are stuck being high hopes.


Also, I have to keep from dying. VERY important. Then, I have to have a heart-to-heart with myself because I'm going to become a man. The problem is... I should be a man when I give myself "the talk," so...I don't know. I guess I would rather become a man first, thus be qualified to give myself "the talk." To wit, I'd rather be a man without guidance for a few hours, then tell myself how to be a man than to, as a child, tell myself, before the fact, that I am going to be a man and this is how it's gonna be.


Second, I have some...issues to resolve with that...that...metamorphic, pink-fleshed, see-through-bowel-having WHELP Gandrayda! Damn! She just toasts my bread! That...oh, I will stop now before I start crying begin cursing uncontrollably and uh, beat someone.


I can see her. In my mind. Oh, just in case you didn't know (where have you been for the last month? Roasting in the pits of everlasting damnation?), Gandrayda is a bounty hunter in Metroid Prime 3, and she thinks she's better than Samus. As you well know, that is a capital offense, and I am going to tear her throat out for it. Hopefully, I'll get that done tomorrow. Unless I can smash her between two ships or in a press or something. As long as her brain loses its...liquid...life-giving...fluid feed, I guess, I don't know if she has blood...then I am fine. Maybe I'll just rip her head off then crush it, to be sure. You know, land a ship on it, or something.



Today I was watching Zaboomafoo. It occurs to me that I will no longer be able to watch it. I will be a man tomorrow, and I can't be watching children's shows anymore.

Not that I...y'know...ever have. I figure I should go sit in at a Kindergarten class, or something. Go to a teachers convention. You know...like...a bachelor party, except this is the last day of my youth. From now on, it's liver spots, varicose veins, baldness, and dentures. And...laxatives.


God help me.

Kev Goes to the Dentist...and makes a long, long post about it.

I know what you're thinking.


So, I went to the dentist a week or so ago. I did not blog about it immediately, because I...took a note from a close friend and decided that when I have an...disturbing event occur, I should let my uneasy feelings subside before posting about it to avoid "paranoid, delusional episodes." That close friend was my Mom. She gave birth to me. Welcome the "I probably made that up" tag. Prepare to be used, baby.


My Dad had an appointment on the same day an hour after mine. He said it would be fine.

Now, my Dad is never right. One day, he was wrong so often, even he started to realize he was wrong when he thought something. So I was not assured. We arrived at the dentist office. There was a faint smell of dread in the air. A still.

Suddenly, we heard the dentist call out (it was a small office): "DAMNIT! GET ME THE HAMMER DRILL," followed by "Which one? The Craftsman or the Bosch?" from an female assistant. I did not like his reply: "WHICHEVER ONE HAMMERS HARDER, DAMNIT!"

Seemingly for good measure, he yelled again: "DAMNIT!"


My Dad handed me the forms. "What are THESE?!" I screamed, half in a rage, half almost in tears. You know how your voice gets when you're in immediate, horrifying danger. "Kev...it's the forms. You're almost a man. You need to learn to write on them."

He added for good measure: "Oh...and make sure your writing in legible."

The words echoed in my head as the world spun around me.

Now, for some reason, my Dad thinks my writing is illegible. I wouldn't know why. My writing is a WORLD apart! I don't know anyone else who can write like me. No one even tries! Below is a picture of both my normative write and also my cursive.


Purely readable. You could print the above picture on a matchbook and still be able to read it. So clear.


Now, have you ever seen better cursive? You could print that on a match and still be able to read it. Whew. *touches writing and makes a "tsss" sound to indicate that it is very hot penmanship*


So I filled out the form. I made ONE little mistake, and my Dad shredded it and decided I should attempt to fill out another or "save them stacks of paper and let me do it." Ooh, that man!


We waited around a bit in their waiting room. We could faintly hear the drill in the operations room. It stopped. Someone yelled out "OH, CRAP!" Shortly thereafter, a nurse appeared near the receptionist. She shook her head solemnly and formed a cross on herself. The receptionist stated "third one this week."

...it was Tuesday.


"Oh, dear God," I prayed. "Now would be a nice time to call us all home, please. Or just strike the dentist with one of your lightning bolts, or a meteor. Yeah- a big meteor. You know, I heard that a lot of people are dropping dead from heart attacks all over nowadays...kill him, Lord!"

Then I heard the call.

From the nurse.


"Mr. Stewartsky?" she stated. "HI!" I blurted, trying to appear more scared than I was. "Come with me," she said. There was something about her. Something evil. Something...evil. Wait. No, yes, that's right. Two evils.


"Hi, my name's Susan, I'll be your oral hygienist today," she said, her soothing, grandmother-like voice eking evil. Or...kindness...I forget which. Hindsight, and all that. She directed me to a dentist chair. I would not be broken that easily. Do you have any idea how close "Susan" is to "Satan?" VERY!

Sadly, my "I am a good patient" instincts kicked in, and I sat down. Curse that instinct. All my doctors love me, though. One time, my doctor passingly mentioned his lunch break, so I offered to do the work while he went to lunch. I had such a good patient history, he trusted me to do it myself and gave me his stethoscope! I diagnosed myself and even gave myself 5 shots! Note, this wasn't Dr. BBHitnnaface (the time I got some blood drawn, the time I got the test results back).


The rest of the visit went fine. She was the most awesome oral hygienist- she made a comment on my Dad's dental history. He hadn't gone to the dentist for 30 years, and now he has to have a few teeth pulled. She- spur of the moment- called it the "30-year plan." Rofl. Dolf. Tax, please!

Everything went fine, that is...until the dentist came in to take a final look. Wow, it's amazing how much their XRay technology has improved. It used to be...you'd have to wear a 400 pound lead "apron," and so you wouldn't die while it was on you, they first hooked you up to an iron lung. THEN, they sealed you in a concrete chamber 50 feet underground so you wouldn't "radiate up" the atmosphere. Like it was YOUR fault!


...anyway, once the dentist got there, he started breathing in my face. He was a smoker who heavily minted his breath. It was like gutting an animal, sticking your head in its ribcage, and trying to drive. Sorry, that may be a bit graphic. They actually have really clean rib cages, but they STINK!



In the end, I got the all-clear from the dentist. I think I became addicted to cigarettes in the 3 minutes he was looking at my teeth, though. I had no cavities. AT ALL. Plus, Sata-er, Susan, said my teeth were beautiful. She almost fainted once she got to looking at them!


Lastly, she polished them with love. I asked her how she has so much love to polish into teeth. I know that if I have to cook, say, three meals worth of hamburger patties, I have less love to put into each patty, and if I have to put love into a meal like Thanksgiving, I have to store it up by cooking hatred and disgust into two or three meals right before cooking the Thanksgiving dinner. She said that you just get used to it, and that she could only polish love into one or two sets of teeth a day when she first started. Go figure. I guess that's why people who often cook typically get better and better.



Now I need to go to sleep. One more day to my birthday. Oh, and that reminds me, did you know that I enjoy using a glove when I play RTS games like C&C (Real Time Strategy / Command & Conquer)? Oh, yes, I used to use a certain glove, but it is long gone. The problem is that most gloves are not comfortable enough to use with a mouse for any length of time, and if they are, they're very slippery and do not afford a good grip. But if they do offer a good grip, they're usually too thick to be comfortable. Oh, what a predicament, oh, meomi. It's hopeless. I pretend I'm Destroevsky. You know. That's really a brilliant thing, I think.

That guy was gay, right?

I'm Not Neo: Seafood Vengeance

Well, today I had a dream that I was Neo. An Agent was trying to kill me. Except that...the agent traveled back in time, Terminator-style. Wiggy.


I then got to thinking how much I like Gumbo because I looked at Pioneer Woman's BBQ Shrimp recipe (which looks birthdaytastic!). I have a deep admiration for seafood. My parents kept me hopelessly held back from seafood. "YOU CAN'T EAT THAT, KEV," they spat. "But Mama, Papa, I wanna eat seafood!"

"THEN YOU CAN DO IT OUT IN THE RAIN! NOW SCOOT, YOU VERMIN!" they screamed. "GET IN THERE AND EAT YUR DAMNED HOTDOGS AND HAMBURGERS OR CRAWL OUT THERE IN THE RAIN AND DIE AND ROT IN HELL!!!"


...needless to say, I did not eat much seafood.


But now it is time to take my vengeance. Now that they can no longer drag me outside and leave me in the cold and rain. I began by establishing Salmon as a dinner. Then, I established Gumbo as a great dinner. My parents- both of them- HATED Gumbo. I mean, they would get sick just if they knew it was cooking. They'd lose their appetite a week before and not know why. It's like, Gumbemaric pressure or something.

It, hah heh ho hah, turns out they'd never...y'know...actually...you know, had Gumbo. It turns out they love it. Oh, but they hate shrimp. I bet...that if I make BBQ shrimp... they both dig in, heaping praises on me. Oh, and that certainly would be a great meat dish for my birthday, to compliment the Rotini and Sweet Pepper Primavera (primavera has the word "prime" in it! Yes!). They say it takes 2.5-3 pounds of 21-26 count shrimp. Hmm.


Someday, I'll need to get a cookbook on seafood cooking. And I am going to own some crabs in a few months, here. By own I mean pwn, not "possess." As in...cook, then eat. Heh heh heh.


Speaking of "pwn," did I mention I do so find it difficult to lug around a Strong's Concordance, and it really takes a while to find something with it? Y'know, somehow...I think I forgot to post that. You know, how Hitman and the Justice think it's funny to lord these things over me. Oh well, I'll buy myself one for Christmas or something.

Sparkplugs VS. The Destroyer

So, today I got up. I got dressed, and went and changed out the spark plugs in our 1989 Ford F150. Al Gore would be rolling around in his grave!

First, I took out the first one. I went P2341, then D4321 (P is passenger, D is driver, and "1" is closest to the radiator (that is a cool word!!!)). One was a bit rusty...on the inside. Eek. Two plug wires broke, but luckily we have a few extra (a guy from church owns a Ford and left his car unlocked). (I am joking, I do not know from whence they came).

Oh, also, this week was the first week I missed church. I had an...unsettling dream. My Pastor was the antiChrist, and I found his cloning labs and genetic research lab (and probably got caught on camera). He wasn't doing anything evil, but he WAS evil! I made a decision that just because he wasn't being evil right now, doesn't mean he won't turn evil and start running around like a dragon with its head cut off. Me and my Mom got in a fight on the way there (well, my Mom was in a fight with me), and we turned back 10 minutes out, then I was going to go by myself.

I decided I don't want to go to church by myself. That is not fun. It also is not fun when just me and my Mom go. People think we're husband and wife. Or...God forbid... a couple! EWW! Then my Dad comes along, and they think...oh. Is this your son? to which I reply, "GOD, NO, HE'S MY DAD!"



I picked up some Meow Mix as the cats were out of food. Also, this was the week my Dad bought some turtles for a friend at works' daughters. I don't know if they're the ones who like to lick rattlesnakes. The freaks. I have a mental image of them as those twins from The Great Outdoors. The creepy ones. Trust me, I will NOT get over their creepiness ANYTIME soon. Prepare for months of complaining, outraged posts about THEM (that is, my dad's pals from works''s' daughter's')!

I mean, come on! Well...I will have more on the subject later. I could go on for 5 posts about it.


So, I changed the spark plugs. They looked terrible. They were all worn down and stuff. I also changed out the distributor cap and rotor. I tried to start the truck...and, hah, of course it had to lag a bit. I thought it wasn't gonna start. But it did. The truck, months ago, used to idle at 25 MPH. Then it dwindled down until it was finally at 15 MPH lately (with slightly slow acceleration). Now it's back up to idling at 25 MPH! Yes! I assume the acceleration is much better as well.

This was the second car operation I've ever done by myself. The first was an oil change on our '96 Pathy. You know how spark plugs can be. My grandfather tried to change out some spark plugs on his newer Ford, and just about lost his arm when a wild ape jumped into the truck and started it. I told him, "German, do NOT route your arm through the fan belt."

But he didn't listen to me.


Then again, neither of us expected a wild ape to launch itself from its arms into the drivers seat and start the car. Luckily, Grandpa German heard it land and looked up. He took his right arm out from inside the belt, but was still leaning on it with his left, and the force of the belt moving under it ripped it out of its socket. Luckily, the ape was a trained medical assistant, and popped it back in. It then suggested a local doctor (it carries cards for him?), and when Grandpa could not drive due to his arm, it drove him. What a kind ape. But it always gets into trouble.

The ape has not been seen to this day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to making the GREATEST DINNER IN EVERDOM. The only sad part is that there is no sparkling water. I guess that's OK. I am going to have to drink Ginger Ale (the only kind of soda I can halfway enjoy; others are too sweet).

Biting Me - Please Stop

Please, please don't bite me there,
Yes, I really care,
It hurts when you bite me there,
So please stop.

Please do not bite me there, yes I really care
It hurts when you bite me there
Come on, stop



Do not bite me there, I'll fling you in the air,
Give you quite the scare, I swear


Your days are running out
I'll gut you like a trout
Then track your brethren down
(I'd stop)


That's it, you're gonna die
Scratch that, you're gonna fry
I warned you a thousand times
En garde

Smashed into oblivion
Roll-crushed into my skin
Now for your brethren
(Where are they)

Hiding out in the ground,
Or sleeping tight, safe and sound,
...or avenging -- DEATH

AHH GET THEM OFF NO HOW DID SO MANY SWARM LIKE THAT


DAMN MY DAD'S FACE WIPING RAG TO THE PITS OF HELL AND EVERY LAST ANT IT ATTRACTS, DAMNIT WHAT DOES HE DO WIPE HIS PLATE WITH IT TOO AND SMEAR IT WITH SUGAR?!

Ant biting my left arm.

He is in hell now. After taking the pictures, I discovered I was leaning on a pile of ants. Luckily, the entire time I did not move, so they could not reposition themselves to strike until I got up, at which point I roll-crushed them. There were more than 10 in a 1" area.

Though none bit me (stung), I still had a red mark. I am allergic to ants, apparently.